Dr Anxiety, or: How I Learned to Give In to Worrying and Hate Myself.

So I wanted to rant about what's happening in my head when I have anxiety. I'm writing this for my own sake, but I know a few people who can relate. This will mostly be a rant about what anxiety does to a me personally, and how crippling it can be.

For context, I was diagnosed with moderate to severe anxiety three years ago, and that diagnosis has helped me to understand certain actions I've taken or behaviours I've had since I was sixteen.

If you wish to interpret this as a cry for help, then you're probably not far wrong...

Recently, one of my favourite people said to me: "your soul is so fucking pure." He said said this to me with such genuine conviction, even a sense of awe, it's honestly one of the most beautiful compliments I've ever received. The other folk who were there chipped in with their agreements. The context of why it was said isn't important, my concern is my reaction to it. I feel that the truth is that my soul is so clouded by darkness and depression that I am blinded to any such 'purity.'

My anxiety fuelled reaction to such genuine praise has been: "what a load of shit. You don't know how awful I really am."
It may surprise you to learn that suffering from anxiety can lead to truly epic scale self-hate. 

Don't mistake me, I am conscious that I frequently help others with a range of issues and concerns. That's a good thing, right? One of my primary motivators is that I want people to feel positive about themselves and their achievements, even if it means stepping on me to do so. I guess I'm hoping that someone might return the favour someday. 

I'm certainly not motivated to help others for some sort of reward. I'm not that shallow. I do it because I genuinely do want others to feel happier, and I believe the world would be a better place to live in if more people did the same. Maybe I'm trying to lead by example, but it frequently feels like I'm just hoping that being kind to others will make me feel better about myself. Perhaps it should do, but it doesn't.

For an example of how anxiety affects my life, this is the situation I'm in right now:

My brakes in my car need replacing. I'm currently not doing anything about it because my anxiety is making utterly terrified of calling up and spending money I don't have to fix it. I am literally shaking in fear as I type this, the idea of calling someone on the phone leaves me sick to my stomach.

It's not that the act itself scares me, but anxiety makes me horrified about the prospect of screwing it up somehow, of sweating profusely for having to talk to someone who can plainly see how poorly maintained my car is, and the fear of the judgements that come with that.
I feel this way despite knowing that the mechanic gives zero fucks about any of that, and it'll just be another job for him.

But knowing that doesn't change how I am reacting to it, unfortunately. This is because anxiety is bonkers, and it's all down to some processes in my brain failing to function. That and the fact that old habits die really fucking hard.

I have justified my lack of commitment to fixing my car by thinking: "It's only my life, it's nothing to worry about" - or words to that effect. That's stupid, because nonfunctional brakes endanger everyone both on and off the road. But anxiety and depression are trying to trick me into using my not fixing the car as a convenient way to end my own life - or at least fundamentally alter it. 

I am broken. I can't get over the fact that I seem to have a pretty serious disability here, a mental one, that actively prevents me from helping myself. Having to live with a part of me that wants me dead is so, so exhausting. Today, I am losing the battle. In fact, I lose every time I fail to properly organise something, or try to keep up appearances when I can't afford to do things.
Recognising the negative behaviours doesn't help me stop them, though. It's just an acknowledgement: "this is anxiety induced behaviour, which is unhealthy and detrimental to you." It's no different from the warning light I'm ignoring in my car.

Anxiety is like an invisible tumour that can never be removed. And it gets so much worse as time goes on. The tumour festers and grows, the rot of anxiety sets itself deeper in. I don't know what the endgame is, but I do find myself relating all too strongly to suicide cases. I'm deeply empathetic anyway, but I can't escape the fact that I feel like my broken mind has settled on suicide being an inevitable part of my future. 

I am so very conscious that I need more professional help with this. One bout of therapy was useful, but this is something of a long term illness that requires more long term treatment and supervision. Couple that with all the news about how poorly funded mental health services are, and how our NHS is utterly failing, and anxiety allows me to use that as justification for not bothering. I wouldn't want to be an extra strain on all those critically overworked doctors. And if I don't truly value myself in the first place, then what's the point in getting help anyway?

Perhaps this has given some insight into anxiety itself, or maybe even helped justify to others why I am the way I am. Maybe reading this has allowed you to recognise anxiety in yourself, or in someone close to you. If that's the case, unlike giving in to it, like me, I really do urge you to seek help. For what it's worth, my first batch of therapy was intensely valuable and genuinely lead to me to living anxiety free for a significant amount of time.

Thank you for reading.